The Prism Series
by Dazzle
Summary: Cordy and Angel's developing feelings throughout the previous year are explored, one shade at a time.
1. Yellow

I own none of the following characters. I don't intend to infringe on any copyrights. If you enjoy this story, please let me know at RhinestoneDazzle@aol.com. 

Title: Yellow 

Author: Dazzle 

Rating: PG13 

Archive: Wherever you want 

Spoilers: Through the ATS third-season episode "Heartthrob" 

Warnings: None 

Summary: Upon Angel's return from the East, Cordelia finds herself confronting -- and dismissing -- a lot of buried emotion. First in the Prism Series, which follows Cordy and Angel's developing feelings throughout the previous year. 

Thanks: To Inamorata for the great beta-read and encouragement 

The symbolism of yellow: Joy, optimism, idealism, imagination, hope, sunshine, summer, jealousy, illness 

*** 

I come skipping through the door like I've had a good day, which is not really true, unless a "good day" counts as being chased through the subway by a grief-crazed vampire. 

Then again, he didn't catch me, so maybe it does. 

As soon as I shut the door than Dennis dims the lamps, lights the candles and starts the taps going in the bathroom. I laugh. "I'm way better today," I explain. "No visions to rip the top of my skull off. No nonpaying clients to call up and harass. And only one bad guy to kill, but Angel took care of it." 

Angel. I can feel my lips curve into a smile around his name. Oh, God, it's so good to have him home. Home -- that word still doesn't seem to apply to Los Angeles, sometimes. And as much as I love my place, it really feels more like Dennis' apartment, to tell the truth. (Let's face it; he's stayed put after four decades and a serious case of death. The guy isn't breaking the lease anytime soon.) But Angel comes walking through the door -- okay, the basement door -- and suddenly it all feels like home. The Hyperion, my apartment, Los Angeles, and maybe just about every place in the world. 

Okay, weird thought. 

Dennis zooms the loofah from the bathroom door in what I know is a question. The bathtub water is still running, probably his way of pointing out that, regardless of whether the day was great or sucky, I still need to bathe. "Point taken," I sigh as I kick off my shoes. "I probably have a bad case of subway cooties." 

As I drop my bag on the chair, I remember Angel's gift, and I have to take it out and look at it one more time. Why don't more straight men have this kind of taste? The necklace he brought back from Sri Lanka is gorgeous -- earth tones, so it's natural and low-key, but it has a kind of richness to it. It glints gold in the candlelight, and it feels heavy against my palm. 

Huh. I never had a boyfriend give me anything this good. Too bad the only guy who can read my mind is just a friend. 

I take the clip out of my hair and run my fingers through it, mussing it up. Angel didn't say anything about the new cut. Huh. I bet I could dye my hair purple without him saying anything. Might be worth it just to see what he'd do. I peel my clothes off, tossing them into the air to see how many different directions Dennis can catch them from. (All of them, of course.) So by the time I get into the bathroom, I have nothing but a tubful of sunflower-scented bubbles and a few candles to deal with. "Perfect," I breathe. "Just perfect." 

I take a look in the steam-fogged mirror, prepared to assess the damage of the day. But, to my surprise, a day of vampire-hunting hasn't had the usual effects. No shadows beneath the eyes. No cheeks sallow with exhaustion. 

Instead I see myself the way I haven't in too long now. I look good. Great, in fact. Young and golden-tan and glowing with life. The way I used to look when I came in from a beach party, or a pep rally, or even a date with Xander, back before he reverted to his classic loser ways. Downright blushy. I get a really stupid smile on my face, and I'm glad Dennis is the only one who can see it. 

I'm not sick, I think. Not even a little bit. See? I'm such a hypochondriac. Worse than my mom, even. Dreaming up problems that aren't there -- I mean, if I were really sick, really in trouble from the visions, I wouldn't be glowing right now. So there. 

The water is almost unbearably hot -- operative word, "almost." As my friendly neighborhood poltergeist knows, this is just the way I like it, steaming and searing so that I have to lower each leg in slowly, then gradually sink in, wincing as the heat laps up against my belly and my breasts. My skin's prickling from the rush, and I make a teeny mental note to moisturize later. Then I breathe out and let my head loll back against the yellow foam pillow. 

And then there's nothing but me, and the candlelight, and the warmth, and memories of Angel. 

Okay, extra-weird thought. 

Well, maybe not so weird. I mean, you'd be amazed what the right necklace can do for a girl. For a second I wonder whether Angel meant for the necklace to have this kind of effect -- warping the brain of a once more-or-less sane friend -- and then push that thought away. It feels -- uncomfortable. Mostly because it also feels pretty damn interesting. 

I shouldn't beat myself up about the occasional temporary insanity, though. After all, Angel's pretty crushworthy, if you go for that well-muscled, well-dressed, knight-in-black-leather-armor kinda thing. Too bad that's not all there is to it. If Angel didn't have fangs and a curse and an unbeating heart that's probably broken forever by another girl -- well, he does. And I don't let myself forget it. 

Before I knew all that, of course, things were different. Back in high school, I was dying to make him mine -- or, barring that, to catch him a little drunk or a little pissed-off at Buffy and do some crazy-guilty making out in the backseat of my car. I had a major-league fantasy about that -- the water seems a little warmer as I remember it -- new-car smell and my cheerleader skirt showing off my legs and Angel's hands sliding beneath my Sunnydale-High sweater. And it only seemed sweeter to think that Buffy would someday find out -- 

Buffy. Oh, God. 

My eyes squeeze shut as the guilt hits me; the grief comes later, and I'm ashamed to say it's not as strong. Buffy -- as a person, I liked her, mostly. We weren't really friends, but she came about as close as anyone did before Angel and I got tight. All the same, Xander and Giles pretty much filled me in on the Slayer deal back in high school, and I've always known she'd die young. Does that mean I was prepared? I don't know. 

But, Jesus, I could've treated her better while she was here. I didn't have to say bitchy stuff to her because she was Xander's friend. I could've gone to see her after Mrs. Summers died instead of sending her a freakin' card I got at the mall. And I didn't have to spend half of our sophomore year trying to bone her one true love. 

"I'm sorry," I say aloud. My voice echoes slightly against the tiles. Dennis doesn't do anything. He knows I'm not talking to anyone who's here. 

How can I still be struggling with this when Angel's okay with it? He ought to be -- I don't know, crazed or something. Doing his Byronic thing to the hilt. Ripping stuff up and punching the walls and offering his soul to the Powers for another hour of her life. That seems like Angel crisis behavior. 

But instead he's calm. He's together. He's really accepted her death. I gotta tell ya, I love Angel, but no way did I ever think he had it in him. Yet here we are, four months after Buffy's death, and he seems like he's coping better than I am. 

I sigh and sink down a little deeper into the water. I wish I could think about Angel again without shriveling up with guilt, and then I'm glad I can't. 

And then there's a knock at the door. I don't even have to wonder who it is. 

"Just a minute!" I yell, stepping quickly out of the bath. The abandoned foam fizzes slightly in the tub and on my skin. Dennis shuts the bathroom door, which means he's going to go ahead and let Angel in for me. I towel off as fast as I can and throw in my robe; my hair is damp and all curly from the steam, but I tuck it back up in the clip and head on out. It's not like Angel's never seen me worse off than this. 

He's sitting on my couch when I come into the living room. Angel smiles for me as I sit next to him, but it doesn't reach his eyes. I knew it. 

"Buffy," I say quietly. 

Angel nods, and I take his hand in mine. He doesn't speak for a few moments, but finally he says, "I meant what I said today. I'm okay." 

"You're so okay you're over at my house at 11 p.m." 

"I wanted to talk with you about it," he says. "And that's why I know I'm okay." 

I don't really have an answer to that, so I just squeeze his hand and hope that says it all for me. 

Angel puts his other arm on the back of the couch, closing the two of us in closer together, as though he were telling me a secret in a public place and he only wanted me to hear. "It just kinda hit me when I tried to go to sleep. The last night I spent in the Hyperion -- it was the night after her funeral. And I felt like all that pain was still lying there in the bed, waiting to swallow me whole again." 

"You can stay here tonight," I offer, surprised to feel my pulse fluttering as I say it. "On the couch," I add, like I could possibly have meant something different. Because I didn't. Nuh-uh. Absolutely not. 

He smiles at me sadly. "Wish I could," he says. "But then there would be tomorrow night. And the night after that. I have to face it sooner or later. So I'm gonna face it tonight." 

"Probably the smart thing to do. But if you're going to tough it out there, why are you over here?" 

"I wanted to tell somebody about it." 

"You could've told Fred," I point out. "Fred's right there at the Hyperion." 

"Fred's discussing quadratic equations with the drapes," Angel answers. "I wanted to tell you." 

Which does not explain why he didn't pick up the phone and call me. But I don't care why he's here -- I'm just glad that he is. 

The night air is a little cool against my still-damp skin, and I tuck my feet up under me to keep them warm. Angel smoothes one wet tendril of hair behind my ear, and I hope it's the chill making me shiver, not the fact that it's me and it's Angel and we're alone and it's nighttime and I'm not wearing a whole lot in the way of clothing and there's a definite candlelight-glow factor and we're holding hands and we're looking at each other -- 

Because he's here to mourn Buffy, the dead girl whose memory I just can't stop pissing on. 

I turn my head from him sharply and bite my lip. "Hey," he says. "What's wrong?" 

"Buffy," I say. "How come you can deal with her being dead and I can't? How come I can't go ten minutes without feeling guilty for --" My throat closes up, and it's just as well, because I'm really not sure how I would have finished that sentence. 

Angel is quiet for a long time after that, but he doesn't let go of my hand. I start to wish he would. 

"I felt guilty at first," he says at last. "The first few weeks, I felt guilt like I'd never known before." 

For Angel, this is seriously saying something. "I can imagine," I whisper. But really, I bet I can't. 

"But after awhile, I started to realize something about guilt. Something I'd never thought of before." 

It boggles the mind to think that Angel would have anything new to learn about the subject. "What's that?" 

Slowly, he says, "Sometimes you feel guilt because it's -- easier." 

"It doesn't feel easy." 

"No. But neither does grief, or loss, or pain." Angel lets go of my hand then to illustrate what he's saying with a vague gesture. "If you're feeling guilty, you know what to feel. Who to blame. You can hate yourself, beat yourself up, come up with all the things you should've done differently, that you keep on doing wrong. You can do it forever. And while you're doing it, you don't have to think about -- the way she wore her hair, or how she used to act out her funny dreams the next day." His voice is husky now, but he keeps going. "The stuffed pig she had on her bed. Mr. -- Mr. Something. I don't remember. And I want to hate myself for starting to forget things about her, but that's the easy way out. Because it means I'm thinking about me. Not about her." 

And that's what I've been doing too, I realize. Feeling guilty about Buffy, about stupid stuff years past that I know she didn't even care about anymore. Like the way we sniped at each other during the race for Homecoming Queen. Just thinking that hurts all over again -- her rinky-dink little posters, the satisfaction I took in covering them up with my own. I imagine the staples sinking into her face like they were sinking into her flesh. Angel says this is easier? Easier than what? 

But I know the answer, know it by heart, because I've been turning away from it for months now. 

Feeling guilty about Buffy is easier than thinking about the fact that she didn't choose what she was, anymore than I chose to be what I am. Or that she could have died at any time, and that the headaches have gotten so bad sometimes I throw up afterward. Or that the Powers don't really care how long a warrior lives, as long as she does her duty. Basically, it's easier than thinking that I might have anything in common with Buffy, anything at all, because I know where that story ends. 

Yeah, I'd rather feel guilty. But Angel wouldn't. The calm he had early today is settling back over him, steadying him from within. 

"Jesus," I say, because I don't know what else to say. "You really mean it. That's how you're dealing with losing Buffy." 

"Not just Buffy," Angel says. "I spent this summer thinking about a lot of people I hadn't let myself think about in a long time. My sister -- Cordy, do you know, I've spent a century tearing myself apart for killing my sister, but I never stopped to let myself miss her?" 

I shake my head, and he sighs. "It's so weird. It's not that I don't feel guilty anymore. I do. I know that I killed my sister. And I'll never stop wondering if I couldn't have made things different for Buffy, if I'd been there. But I had to let the grief go. In the end -- Cordy, it's the only way to really remember them." 

I nod, like I understand what he's saying. And I guess I do, but only on the surface. I can't touch what he's feeling, not really. But for the first time, I understand the weight that's off him. The way he's been easier in his own skin since the minute he got back. He's free. 

Angel's really and truly free. 

All of a sudden, it feels about nine times as cold in the room, and I can't even imagine what I'm doing in my robe and wet hair. "Are you sure you don't want to crash on the couch?" I offer. "Totally no biggie if you do." 

"No," he says. "No, I should go back to the Hotel. It's not going to get any easier." 

We get up together, and I wrap my arms around me to ward off the chill. It kinda feels like I'm throwing him out, which I kinda am, but I don't want it to feel like that. "Angel -- I'm glad you're being so strong about this," I say. "I'm glad things are better for you." 

He smiles as he goes to the door. "On the ship, sometimes -- when I thought I couldn't go on any more -- I'd remember you. Sometimes I thought I could hear your laugh. It helped a lot." 

All of a sudden, it's like I can see him -- Angel down in the depths of the ship, looking at the necklace he brought me. This precious gift from a faraway place, something he was bringing back from his grief to the person who made him smile. And there is no way I can help smiling back. "Glad to be of service." We hug tightly at the door, and as his arms wrap snugly around my waist, as his face presses into the warmth of my neck, I take a moment to be grateful that I didn't ever fall for him. Not really. Because, if I had, I couldn't be his friend like this, could I? And Angel needs his friends. 

Angel steps back; he doesn't say anything, just turns and goes. I watch him walk off into the darkness for a while before Dennis finally shuts the door. 

I go to my room to change into a T-shirt and some sweatpants -- much more snug for sleeping -- but just as I shrug off the robe, I catch a glimpse of my new necklace on the bedstand. The necklace Angel brought back for me -- a gift from one friend to another. Before I can stop myself, I have to try it on again. 

I stand in front of the mirror, naked, and wind the necklace around my throat. It's heavy and cold against my damp skin, and I feel a shiver run through me. The pendant hangs almost between my breasts, and it rises and falls with my breath. For a moment, I wonder if Angel thought about the way it would look -- the way I would look now -- when he bought it. 

I look myself up and down, head to toes. At my feet I can see a box full of medication that's doing me less and less good. 

Then I shove the thought of Angel aside. The guy needs his friends. And so do I. 

*** 

End 

Send feedback to: RhinestoneDazzle@aol.com. 

Coming soon: Gray 


	2. Gray

I own none of the following characters. I don't intend to infringe on any copyrights. If you enjoy this story, please let me know at RhinestoneDazzle@aol.com. 

Title: Gray 

Author: Dazzle 

Rating: PG13 

Archive: Wherever you want 

Spoilers: Through the ATS third-season episode "Carpe Noctem" 

Warnings: None 

Summary: Angel returns to Los Angeles from Sunnydale and tries to understand what happened between him and Buffy -- and the many forces pulling him back home. Second in the Prism Series, which follows Cordy and Angel's developing feelings throughout the previous year. 

Thanks: To Inamorata for the great beta-read and encouragement 

The symbolism of gray: reliability, maturity, old age, sadness 

***** 

"If you ever need me --" 

I say it because it's true, because I mean it. But even as the words leave my mouth, I realize how it must sound, here and now. 

Buffy is staring at me in the twilight, her face ashen and unmoving. For one moment I almost believe that she is the dead one. That she is still dead. 

"I told you what I need," she says, her voice quavering with her effort at control. And more horrible than anything that's gone before is the realization that even now, as I am walking toward my car, she hopes I might still change my mind. 

Or maybe it is my own realization that I won't. 

"I can't," I say. "I wish I could, Buffy. But I can't." 

This is when she should start yelling at me, or make a joke to try and prove that she doesn't care, or even cry -- it hurts to realize how well I know the way her face looks when she cries. 

But she doesn't. Her head droops slightly. I am seeing something I've never seen before or wanted to see: Buffy accepting defeat. 

Standing here are two star-crossed lovers, saying our final farewells without passionate kisses or promises of devotion. Instead, we are awkward, dejected people standing in a parking lot, illuminated only by the pale silver of streetlights and a hotel sign. My hands are folded in front of me, guarding me (from her, from Buffy), and one of my fists is squeezing the car keys so that the metal edges cut my hand. 

"So," she says with a shrug as she turns on one heel, "Nice seeing you. If the world starts ending, keep me posted." 

Not like this. "Buffy, I'm sorry." 

She doesn't look back. "You're always sorry." 

And I watch Buffy get into her car and drive away. I watch the taillights vanish on the road; they blur along with my vision, and I realize that I'm crying. Breaking down in a gravel parking lot, like a particularly pathetic drunk. 

You'd think she was the one who'd said no. 

I slide into the Plymouth and start the engine. It's time for me to start driving in the opposite direction. 

As I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand, I can feel that my lips are still swollen. The tiny cuts have healed -- the nicks of her teeth and mine as we kissed. We were devouring each other, as though there were no curse, no years between us; how could that have been just yesterday? 

But yesterday was different. Yesterday was the day she returned from the dead into my arms. And she was as beautiful as I remembered her, and she needed to talk about being dead, about heaven, about wondering what her place was in the world now. All I had to do was hold her and listen. We spent all night wrapped in each other's embrace, enclosed in shadows and our own shared nightmares. And I was a such a fool that I told myself nothing had changed. That nothing could ever change for us, not really. 

Today, we slept, side by side, in peace. But in the afternoon she awoke, and she said the last thing I thought she would ever say. 

"Angel -- come back with me." 

That, alone, didn't set off any alarms. "I can drive back to Sunnydale with you," I said, mentally calculating the amount of time I could spend there before I would be needed back in L.A. "Maybe hang out for a couple of weeks. I could patrol with you and we could just -- be together. Would that help?" 

"That's not what I mean," Buffy said. She smiled hesitantly. "I mean, come back to Sunnydale. To stay." 

"It won't work," I said automatically. I'd had the talk with myself enough times to know my lines by heart. "We've been down this road before, Buffy. I won't put you through it again." 

She laughed, and it was a sound unlike anything I'd ever heard from her. Like glass breaking. "You think that's such a terrible thing to be put through? I don't. Not anymore. Not compared to --" Buffy shook her head. After a moment, she said, "Angel, sex -- it would be nice, sure, to be able to just -- be in your skin. Not to have to think or feel. But that's just running away. Just bodies. What we used to have -- that's what I need." 

Maybe it was the fact that she used the past tense -- "used to have." Maybe it was the way she said "just bodies" -- I've thought of our one night together more times than I can count, and I never thought of it as something purely physical. Whatever it was, I wasn't moved by what she said. I was -- uneasy. 

Buffy didn't notice. She wasn't looking at me; she was looking through me, clutching onto my arm with all her considerable strength. I could feel her nails digging into my flesh. "You can come back with me, and, and -- you can live at the house. Mom's room -- well, it's empty now, but you could stay there." Her voice rattled on and on, hollow of thought, hollow of any emotion save raw need. "We can patrol, and you can help me look after Dawnie, and it'll be like old times. But better, because we won't have to hide, and the -- the rest won't matter. And I won't have to be scared anymore, because you'll be with me." 

"Buffy," I said, cutting her off before she could say any more. "What you're afraid of -- I can't protect you from that. Nobody can." 

She shook her head. "You can, Angel, I know you can --" 

"What you need now -- it's not something I can give you." If only it were. I owe her that much; don't think I don't remember it. At my lowest point, Buffy was the one who inspired me to get back up again. But what she's going through -- it's different. I wish it weren't, but it is. "What you need has to come from inside you." 

And that was the first time her eyes filled with tears. "It's not in me. It's not there anymore." 

I can't stand thinking about it anymore -- not right this second. I force myself to concentrate on the road as I merge onto 5 South, already thick with the traffic that will slow to a crawl once I reach home. 

Home. L.A. is home now. I don't know when it happened, and I don't care. All I know is that it feels good to be going back there, even as much as it hurts to have left Buffy behind. When I get home, I can feed, and go up to my own room, my own things. If Cordy's there, maybe we can talk; if she's not, I can call her. She'll understand why I did it. I'll feel better once I can talk it over with someone who understands. 

"Cordy?" Buffy's voice was blade-sharp. "You won't help me because you're so worried about Cordelia?" 

"It's not just Cordelia," I said. We were fighting by this time, pacing back and forth within the confines of our little hotel room. The mirror was behind her; from the reflection I saw there, it looked as if she were only arguing with herself. "There's Gunn, and Fred, and Wesley --" Buffy made a rude sound, and I felt a quick surge of anger before reminding myself -- she doesn't know him now, she just remembers the way he used to be, and you weren't so wild about him then yourself. "We have an agency to run. And Cordy's visions -- those are missions, Buffy. They're as important for me as your slaying is for you. I can't walk away from that, and in the long run, you wouldn't respect me if I did." 

"The long run? Since when do I get to think about the long run?" Buffy held out her hands; her fingernails were broken off down in the quick. "Tell it to somebody who hasn't had to dig her way out of her own grave. There isn't any long run, Angel. That's the mistake we made. We made all these decisions for my future? I don't have a future. I don't have anything I can't hold in these hands." 

I wanted to say, If you're immortal, actually, there is a long run to think about. But I held my tongue. "You have a future, Buffy. You've got this whole new chance --" 

"There's nothing new about it --" 

"-- and you have a job you have to do." She's still the slayer. She's that down to her bones, and I knew even if she'd forgotten everything else in her terror, she couldn't have totally lost sight of that. "I have a job to do. Cordelia's visions show her -- murders, rapes, assaults, attacks, all horrible, but we can stop them. I can stop them --" 

"Did Cordy have a vision of my death?" 

That hit me hard. Because I'd asked myself why not a hundred times, a thousand times, and there was never any answer, ever. I didn't have to reply to Buffy; she saw the truth in my face. Her lips twisted in a bitter smile as she said, "Do you think that means I'm supposed to have stayed dead?" 

I take a deep breath of the night air rushing around me in the convertible. The oxygen can't do anything for me -- not that there's that much oxygen in the air here on the freeway -- but the pressure in my lungs seems vaguely reassuring, nonetheless. I'm calming down. Buffy's words still hurt; I imagine they always will. But the fact is that I find myself turning them over in my head almost calmly, wondering whether or not they might be true. 

Was Buffy meant to stay dead? A part of me rejects that, wants to believe that any moment Buffy's here on this earth is for the better. But another part of me knows -- there's worse things than staying in your grave. I'm one of them. Is Buffy enduring another? 

If so, shouldn't Cordelia have seen Willow pulling Buffy down from heaven? If she had seen it -- if the Powers had told me that this was what I had to prevent -- would I have done it? 

Maybe that's another question for Cordelia later. Or maybe that's not a question I ever need to ask again. I sure as hell don't need to keep pushing it all off onto Cordelia. I hadn't realized how much of a habit that was, until Buffy called me on it. 

"Cordelia needs this, Cordelia needs that, Cordelia's visions hurt --" Buffy sing-songed, tilting her head back and forth. 

"They do hurt," I said, fighting to control my temper. "They hurt her a lot. I worry about her. If you saw her, you'd be worried too." 

"Excuse me, but when do you think I'd have time to worry about poor little Cordy? After taking care of my orphaned sister? Between slaying vampires and demons? Maybe I can schedule some concern for Cordy's headaches between repeatedly getting killed." 

"They're not headaches!" I yelled. I can count the number of times I've yelled at Buffy on one hand, but I yelled at her then. "If she sees a vision of someone's eyes being torn out, she feels her own eyes being torn out. If it's someone being boiled in lead, she has to feel what that's like. Being boiled in lead. She feels all the pain and all the fear and all the agony of every single death, every single time. Cordy's lived through all those deaths. I know it doesn't compare to actually dying, but -- it's not nothing, Buffy. Don't talk about it like it's nothing." 

Buffy's expression didn't soften. "You worry about her a lot." 

"It's because of me she has the visions," I replied. I'm not sure that's true, but it feels true. "And they're getting to her more and more. They're worse than they used to be." For the first time, I said aloud, "I'm frightened for her. For what it might mean." 

"Can you protect her from them? Make them stop?" 

If only I could. "No." 

"Then you can't help her any more by being there," Buffy said. "But you can help me. Don't you think I need your help as much as she does?" 

"It's not about Cordelia." 

"It sounds like it's about Cordelia." 

"Well, it's not." Not only about Cordelia, anyway. "It's about the ones she sees. The ones I have to save." 

"Of course," Buffy said. "And she never did see me." 

The road sign's markings gleam white in the reflection of my headlights: Los Angeles, 15 miles. Add in the traffic, I'm probably looking at half an hour to home. I feel the last thing I'd ever imagined I could feel when I left Buffy's side, not so long ago -- relief. 

I'm going home. To the hotel, to my rooms, to funny little Fred and her wall paintings, to Gunn and his pseudo-tough attitude, to Wesley with ink marks on his fingers. And to Cordelia, who will listen to all of this and tell me what's true. Or maybe just listen to me. That might be about as good. For a guy who's spent most of his unlife finding ways not to talk to people, I'm learning to enjoy telling Cordelia what's on my mind. 

Weird. I never talked to Buffy like that -- or when I did, it was because it was forced out of me, by events or her own desperate pleading. And it always felt as though I was burdening her, weighing her down with my own troubles. 

Should I feel that way about Cordy? An uneasy haze of guilt settles over my determination to talk to her about this. Telling her would feel good -- God knows why, but it would. But it won't solve anything. And I know how Cordy will react: She'll be mad at Buffy, and upset for me, and confused by my questions about the visions. 

In other words, Cordy will feel worse, so I can feel better. Maybe I should start keeping a few more things to myself. Or at any rate, keep this to myself. No matter how much it hurts. 

"I have a mission too, you know," Buffy said. The anger and bitterness were gone from her voice then; she was pleading by that point, and it was a thousand times more painful than her wrath. "I have to be the slayer. I have to protect Sunnydale. And I don't see how I can do it anymore, Angel. I need help. I need you." 

She held out her hands, beseeching. Her eyes were brimming with tears, and her tears have always melted me. I looked into her pale, colorless face, and if I had seen even a shadow of the love we once felt -- of the love that won't ever stop having power over me, even if we go through a thousand days like today -- I would have broken. I'd have said yes to her, gone back to Sunnydale, given up my home and my mission and everything else, for the sake of what we had been. I owe her so much, and it would be the best part of my atonement if I could pay a little of that back, and I wanted to do it so badly it felt like it was ripping me open. And if Buffy still loved me, I might have had a chance of helping her. I stared at her then because I wanted to see that love, wanted to know that I had the power to bring her back from darkness. 

But I didn't. Buffy's face showed nothing but fear. 

"You don't need me, Buffy," I said slowly. "If I could help you -- give you what you need -- I'd come. But I can't. And down deep, you know it." 

She didn't argue the point. Instead she said, "You don't want to come back to me? You really don't want me anymore?" 

I tried to ask myself the question. I couldn't. I answered her differently. "You're desperate," I said. "If I took advantage of your desperation, you'd hate me for it someday." 

"You think I don't hate you for this now?" Her voice was leaden and dull. I didn't hear hate; I wished I could have heard anything as alive as hate. 

My car is in the heart of the L.A. traffic labyrinth, an endless skein of winding asphalt. But it feels almost refreshing to steer my way through it, find the path I need to get home. I should feel worse than I do. I should feel -- something else. Something for myself. 

But the fear I have, the pain, isn't for me. It's for her. I know the anguish she feels can't last forever. What I don't know is -- what will be left, when she's done being afraid? 

It could be something very dark. I know that from my own experience. But in my heart I have to believe there's something better ahead for Buffy. For her sake, I hope she finds it soon. 

For my own sake, there's nothing like fear. There's only a sense of gratitude as I drive toward the Hyperion. I imagine coming through the doors and seeing them all, seeing Cordelia's smile. And I can only think how good it will feel to be back home. 

***** 

END 

Feedback to: RhinestoneDazzle@aol.com 

Coming Soon: "Green" 


	3. Green

I own none of the following characters. I don't intend to infringe on any copyrights. If you enjoy this story, please let me know at RhinestoneDazzle@aol.com. 

Title: Green 

Author: Dazzle 

Rating: PG13 

Archive: Wherever you want 

Spoilers: Through the ATS third-season episode "Offspring" 

Warnings: None 

Summary: Angel tries to accept the upheavals in his life -- Darla's return, his child's imminent birth, and the dawning of new emotions for Cordelia. Third in the Prism Series, which follows Cordy and Angel's developing feelings throughout the previous year. 

Thanks: To Inamorata for the great beta-read and encouragement 

The symbolism of green: nature, fertility, youth, renewal, inexperience, jealousy, beginnings 

***** 

The moonlight is pale in the courtyard; with the hotel's height all around it, relatively little light gets in, by day or by night. But during the day, there's enough sun out here to burn. And during the night, there's enough sky to see. I sit down heavily on one of the stone benches; the leaves of the hedge-plants rustle, shining dark and green in the pale light. In the middle of all this metal and stone, this small place alive -- growing up toward the sunlight, even though there's so little. 

"You're going to be a father," Cordelia had whispered to me. She said it like she was excited about it. Like it could be a good thing. 

(but it has a soul it has a soul I can hear its heart beat and feel its body move and I can sense its soul) 

Can it be possible? Can Darla and I have possibly created something good? 

Everything I know -- from my own personal history, from Wesley's yellowing books, from pure mathematical probability -- tells me that shouldn't be true. But my child's soul tells me it just might be true after all. 

My child. I haven't thought that before. My child. The words are unfamiliar, almost alien, and yet I have to whisper them aloud, to marvel at the way they sound. I am about to have a child. That child may be a harbinger of unspeakable evil. Or perhaps it may be the means of salvation for countless lives. But whatever else it -- he or she -- will be, the child will be mine. I'm going to be a father. 

For a moment, I feel something I almost don't recognize -- pride, pure and strong. My dead body has given life, something that should be impossible but wasn't. And I know that whatever happened -- whatever strange aberration from the laws of gods and men made it possible for me to father a child -- wasn't anything I did or didn't do. I didn't choose this. I was chosen. But it's happened to me all the same. 

"Hey, you." I look up at the doorway to see Cordelia standing there. Her body is framed by the pale light from the Hyperion lobby. Whatever anger she felt earlier today is gone; Darla scared it out of her, or her vision got her past it. Either way, I'm grateful. I smile and stand without thinking about it, welcoming her to join me. 

As she steps forward, I find myself watching the curves of her silhouette, the soft shine in her eyes as she looks up into mine. I remember what Fred said to me, how vehemently I denied it. It was easier to do before I saw Cordelia nearly being murdered by Darla and knew, in one instant, that what I felt for her was -- not what it had been. It was easier to do when we weren't alone in the moonlight. 

"This is probably my cue to ask you what you're thinking about," Cordelia says. She wraps her arms around herself; the weather tonight is fairly mild, but by Los Angeles standards, there's a chill in the air. "But I'm guessing there's so much knocking around in your head that you couldn't give me a straight answer." 

"I like the fact that you think I'd give you a straight answer otherwise." 

"I try to think positive." Cordelia glances sideways at me. "That was your cue to give me a partial answer. Or at least a clue to go on. You know -- start a phrase, let me try to finish it. Something like that." 

I shrug. "It's not that I'm thinking too much," I say. "I can only think about one thing. The baby." 

This isn't exactly the truth. But I don't think we're going to get anywhere if I admit that I'm also thinking about her. At least not anywhere I'm ready to go. 

"Are you scared?" she says gently. 

"Of course. With my history -- wouldn't you be?" 

"That's exactly what it is. History. You're not the demon you used to be. Darla -- well, okay, she is, but something important must've changed somewhere. And don't remind me where." 

"I haven't changed as much as you think I have." Her eyes narrow; her lips quirk. "Okay, I haven't changed as much as you say I have to make me feel better. I know I'm not Angelus any longer. But that doesn't mean I'm anywhere close to having what it takes to be a dad." 

Dad. That word, for some reason -- it gets me, hits me right under the ribs, makes me blink hard. "Being a father" is an idea you can make abstract; you can talk about patriarchal roles and Freudian imagery and legal responsibilities and wrap it all up in "being a father." But I'm within a few days of being someone's dad. A dad is a guy who can fix a broken toy and sit up late with a child with a cough and take everybody to Disneyland. Fate and the Powers and my own misguided despair have made me a father, but right this second, I can't imagine anything in the universe that would be able to make me a dad. 

"Hey." Cordelia's eyes are dark as she looks up at me. The bandage on her neck is pale in the shadows that surround us. She rests her palms against my chest, and despite everything else that's going on, I remember how we were together earlier in the training room -- our bodies sweaty and tense and inches from each other -- and I shiver. If she notices, she doesn't say anything. "You take care of us, don't you? And you do a pretty good job." 

"I haven't always." 

"This is true. But -- we're not always the easiest crew to take care of." Considering what happened last winter, the embodiment of which is lying upstairs pregnant and homicidal right now, this is about the most generous statement Cordelia could have made. "And every time it's mattered most, you've come through for us. Just like you're going to come through for little Jason or Hannah." 

I feel myself frowning in confusion. "Jason or --" 

"Just throwing some suggestions out there. What I'm trying to say is, when you stop tearing yourself up about the past and live in the present, you're pretty good at taking care of people. Who saved me from Russell Winters? Who kicked Wilson Christopher's lying butt? Who read the part of 'Rafe' about eight jillion times when I had that soap opera audition?" 

"Oh, yeah." She's got me smiling despite myself. How is it she always does that? "What was the line again? Something about amnesia." 

Cordelia laughs, and I can't help but revel in the sound of it as it echoes in the courtyard. Then I wonder if Darla can hear and then realize, of course she can. Darla understands what I'm feeling, even if Cordy doesn't -- hell, even if I don't. She always did. Always will. And no matter how much she wants to be done with me, she'll never be able to endure seeing that I care about someone else. 

Because of that, even this small moment of closeness is endangering Cordy. So how can I even be so irresponsible as to let myself think about -- 

Her hands are still resting against my chest. I turn away from her abruptly, trying to put some distance between us. "Cordy, I need some time alone. To think." 

"Alone is the last thing you need to be." She's standing close behind me, so close I can almost feel her breath against my back. "And Angel -- you're not ever going to be alone again. Not really." 

Oh, God, she's right. From this day on -- I can fuck up or lose it or take off. I can alienate my friends and obliterate my enemies. I can go from city to city, continent to continent, taking nothing with me but what I've got on my back. But my child will be my child forever. I will always be a father. Even a century from now -- even when my child is old and gray, or dead at the end of a long life -- I'm still gonna be a father. Everything else might pass away; if Wesley got that translation right, even my being a vampire will someday be a thing of the past. I even got out of hell. But this -- this is forever. 

I'm terrified. I'm exhilarated. I want to turn around and grab Cordy close, for comfort and for celebration and - no denying it -- a few other things besides. Instead I sigh I run my hands through my hair. "God, Cordy, I want this to work out." 

"Why wouldn't it work out?" Her voice has moved -- I glance over my shoulder and see her settling down on one of the stone benches. She's not aware that I'm watching her, and I realize that she's more tired than she's letting on. No wonder, considering the close call she had with Darla. But she's putting on a good show for me, only revealing her exhaustion -- a slight slump, a hand drawn through her hair -- when she thinks I don't see. 

I look away from her again before answering. "You heard Wesley. My child might not be normal. I mean, why would we even expect normal?" 

"The situation's pretty far from the beaten path," Cordy agrees. 

"Darla and I could have created a monster. Heredity would pretty much call for it, if heredity even applies to our kid. And that night --" I know she's flinching without seeing it, still angered by my lie, but once again I find that I have to talk to her, spill it out, even if it hurts. "That night was terrible, Cordy. I was in despair. I didn't care about good or evil, right or wrong. If Darla had tried to stake me afterward, I would've let her. I didn't care. How can a life created from that be good?" 

Unwillingly, I flash back to Buffy; as we fought, that horrible last day, she asked me why Cordy hadn't had a vision of her death. Asked if I wasn't meant to save her, if she wasn't truly intended to be dead. I asked myself then if I would have prevented Buffy's resurrection, if the Powers said it was the right thing to do. At the time, it seemed like the hardest question imaginable, one I was grateful not to have to answer. 

And now, here's a harder one. One I may have no choice but to answer before too long. What if my child isn't something that's supposed to be on this earth? What if my mission demands that I sacrifice what I love most in the world? 

"I don't know," Cordy says. I wait for her to follow it up with something reassuring -- but apparently she doesn't have anything reassuring to say. When I look down at her again, I see that she's lost in her own thoughts about my child. Her own fears? Hard to say. 

And I realize, in turn, how much I've been counting on her saying something reassuring. Darla's back, Darla's PREGNANT, the world is possibly ending as a result, and I'm enough of a fool to think that something Cordelia's gonna say is going to fix it all. 

I'm enough of a fool to think that Cordelia can fix everything. A curse, a heart that's still beat-up after leaving Buffy, a demon, Wolfram & Hart, prophecies, my dark, dingy practice room -- everything, I expect her to fix all of it. Just by being here, being in my life. And the burden of my expectations and my -- wishes -- isn't something I have any right to expect her to bear. 

Fred wasn't totally right earlier, but she wasn't totally wrong. She sees more than we realize; we think her nervous chatter and her fluttery gestures mean she's flighty. But I won't make that mistake about Fred again. She saw -- something that has been waking up inside me, something I hadn't even acknowledged before. 

Something I won't ever acknowledge again. 

I can still turn away from this, save our friendship, my sanity and her heart. What we are now is all we ever can be. And God knows it's already so much more than I deserve. 

"About heredity," Cordelia says, startling me. She's abrupt, even by her standards; she's not saying this for my benefit as much as just letting the idea spill out. "It must apply. Otherwise, how would your baby have inherited a soul?" 

"I don't know if it works that way," I say, taking my place by her side on the bench. We sit together in the moonlight, faces grave. "Nice thought, I guess." 

"Okay, so, we're both clear on the fact the baby situation might not end nice." I nod. Unexpectedly, she smiles -- nothing gentle or sweet, a fierce grin that I've seen on her face when she's gearing up for battle. "Well, if it's an evil-kill-destroy thing, I'll handle it." 

"Cordy --" I don't know whether to thank her or punch her. 

"And then I'll handle whoever or whatever put you in a situation where you couldn't keep -- where you had to -- whoever put you in this situation," Cordelia says. I find myself hoping Darla can hear that, too. "You don't have to worry about it. You -- I want you to worry about the daddy side of things." 

Maybe Cordelia can't fix everything. But right at this moment, it feels like she can. I bet she'd like to try. 

"Cordy?" I might as well say it now, before I lose my nerve. I know I'll never say it again. "What I was trying to say before --" 

To my surprise, she gets up as if to go. "You need some time alone," she says. "I don't blame you. Take as long as you want, okay?" 

"Thanks, but that's not what I meant." I take her hands in mine and look up at her. "I really do love you." 

I mean it as a friend, and she accepts it the same way. She leans down and kisses me on the forehead, chaste and sweet, and for a moment it seems insane that I could ever want to trade what we've already got for anything else. 

"Love you too," she says. "Good night, Daddy." 

***** 

END 

Feedback to: RhinestoneDazzle@aol.com 

Coming Soon: Red 


	4. Red

I own none of the following characters. I don't intend to infringe on any copyrights. If you enjoy this story, please let me know at RhinestoneDazzle@aol.com. 

Title: Red 

Author: Dazzle 

Rating: PG13 

Archive: Wherever you want 

Spoilers: Through the ATS third-season episode "Dad" 

Warnings: None 

Summary: Cordelia tries to celebrate both Christmas and Angel's new fatherhood, but finds it increasingly difficult to hide from her fears for her health. Fourth in the Prism Series, which follows Cordy and Angel's developing feelings throughout the previous year. 

Thanks: To Inamorata for the great beta-read and encouragement 

The symbolism of red: love, energy, strength, desire, danger 

*** 

"Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" is playing, and Fred is tossing tinsel on the tree, and Angel is standing next to me with his baby son in his arms. Life does not get a whole lot better than this. 

"This is one seriously sad tree," Gunn says, folding his arms and shaking his head in pretend dismay. "You know how Charlie Brown felt bad for that skinny tree in the cartoon? He woulda left this one on the lot." 

"I love that cartoon," Fred sighs. "I love it when Linus tells the Bible story." 

"I like the way they all dance," I add, then start doing Lucy's little funny twist move. Fred starts doing the pony, and Gunn starts doing a Snoopy dance that puts Xander Harris' to shame. 

Wesley is staring at us all as though we have gone insane, which just might be the case. But Angel is smiling at us like we are the greatest dancers and funniest comedians in the world. "I haven't seen this cartoon," he says. "Is it -- traditional?" 

I never knew he could smile so much. I never knew how good it would be to see him smile so much. 

"Yet another pop-culture icon that passed you by," I sigh. "It's the Christmas special of all Christmas specials, and you are going to watch it with this little guy every year." I poke Connor gently in his tummy with two fingers; he stirs in his sleep, a faint rustle of blankets, then rests against Angel's chest once more. 

"Starting this year," Angel says with a firm nod, like there's nothing more important in the world than checking out Charlie Brown. 

"Come on, Wesley," Fred says, ponying around him to get some crimson bows for the branches. "YOU'VE seen the Charlie Brown Christmas Special, haven't you?" When he shakes his head, she stops dancing and stares at him in shock. 'Okay, you had a deprived childhood." 

Fred and Gunn both laugh, because they don't know better; Fred's joke is just a joke, to them, and they're too bouncy to notice the way Wesley stands a little straighter, the tension in his back. Angel puts one hand on Wesley's shoulder. "We were going to talk about presents, right?" 

"Right. Of course. Right you are." Wesley brightens right up, now that he has a little speech to make. I sit next to Angel and squeeze his arm a little, a thank-you for looking out for Wesley. He smiles over at me, then all of a sudden gets really interested in Connor. Maybe there's some diaper trouble. Don't want to know. "Now, as we are all well aware, money is in rather short supply of late." 

"Translation: We are flat-broke busted," Gunn says. 

"Succinct as usual, Charles. We have enough to pay the utilities for the Hyperion, and to cover our salaries --" I can't help but snort at the term "salary," applied to the very tiny checks we each take home. Wesley shoots me a dark look before continuing. "-- but we have very little left over. We've already splurged on the tree. Granted, this was the least expensive on the lot -- but we can't afford to dip much further into our savings." 

What nobody's saying is that we kinda had a decent stash of cash put away, just a month ago; this place has never been looking toward a multimillion IPO, but we've had our share of very wealthy, very grateful clients. But take one newborn baby's medical bills, one set of everything a baby needs (crib to diapers to changing table to mobile), and your savings just evaporate. 

But the reason nobody's saying that is because nobody cares. Connor needs these things. Connor is Angel's child. And he belongs to all of us, a little bit. He can have every penny, as long as I can keep eating -- and come to think of it, if I had to choose between me eating and Connor eating, the kid would win. 

I look down at the baby again, nestled in Angel's arms, and feel a tiny shiver of emotion. I didn't expect to feel like this about Angel's child. It's nice to just relax, not even try to fight the way you feel. Live in the moment. 

"Are you telling us we can't afford presents?" Fred says. Her face falls, just like a child's. 

"Gotta be something we can do," Gunn says. "Fred hasn't gotten to celebrate the season in five years now." 

Fred blushes. "Oh, no. I celebrated. I would try to figure when Christmas might be, and I would decorate a tree near my cave. I mean, I had to decorate it with pine cones and leaves and stuff, which are pretty much the same sort of things you already find on trees, so it wasn't what you'd call elaborate. Plus I picked out my own gifts, which were, like, neat-looking rocks, and rocks are very hard to wrap, even when you can find paper, which in Pylea lots of times you can't, and --" She stops, takes a breath, and surrenders. "Okay, it's true. No Christmas for five years. So we HAVE to get some presents." 

"Here's the ledger," Wesley says, holding it out. We all glance at it, and the mood in the room isn't quite so bubbly for a couple minutes. 

"I'm sorry," Angel says. "I know that having Connor has been expensive --" 

"Don't you worry about that," Gunn says, with about as much warmth as I've ever heard him use talking to Angel. "No matter what we got, Junior here gets the cream." Angel grins up at him gratefully. 

I look at the accounts and do some quick mental arithmetic. "We have to at least get Connor some presents," I say. "It's his first Christmas. He can't have a first Christmas without a visit from Santa Claus." 

I figure somebody's gonna fight me on this -- I mean, as much as I adore this baby, I'm pretty well aware that he doesn't perceive anything farther away than his fist right now. But nobody questions it. "Of course," Fred says. "There's enough here to get him a few things, anyway. Maybe some stuffed animals to sleep with." 

"And throw out of his crib, over and over," Gunn adds with a smile. 

Angel's happy about this idea, but he still looks concerned. "What about you guys, though?" 

Inspiration strikes. "I've got it," I say. "We'll make each other presents." 

"That would be great!" Fred says. Then her face falls. "Like what?" 

"This sounds suspiciously like arts-and-crafts time," Gunn says. 

"Anything," I say with a wave of my hand. "Bake cookies or make a card or whatever. It's the thought that counts, right?" 

Of course, right now I have zero thoughts about what to make -- but I'll figure something out. 

***** 

I get home late; our little Christmas party kept going for a long time, until Angel finally couldn't stand not being up in the nursery with Connor anymore. So I'm drop-dead exhausted, feet pounding in my shoes, but it's worth it. It's been a long time since there was a happy Christmas in Cordeliaville. Not the year after Xander cheated on me -- or the one when Doyle had just died -- or the one when Angel had just fired me -- 

Those years don't matter. THIS is gonna be a happy Christmas, dammit, I think as I lock the door behind me and start leafing through my mail. Nothing's going to interfere with Connor's first Christmas, Angel's first Christmas as a daddy. And for me, it might be -- 

My fingers brush against the envelope from the hospital. Test results. Even though my head feels okay right now, my temples throb once in the memory of pain. 

I flap the envelope against my palm; the only sound in the apartment is the crinkle of the cellophane window that encloses my name. To open or not to open? 

Not to open, I decide. I march into my bedroom to find what I call the headache box -- a plastic container that I used to use for cashmere sweaters, back before I had to pawn them all. Piled in there now are my new career-gal accessories: lab reports that say one thing, x-rays that say another, a collection of hospital ID bracelets and more painkillers than Elvis could consume in a year. 

The headache box is stored under the bed. Right now, it's sticking out a little. Dennis has been doing that lately -- pushing it out so I see it, maybe stub my toe against it. I guess when you're dead, you have to make what hints you can, subtlety be damned. 

But this is one hint I'm not taking. I don't have to open this envelope to find out that nobody really knows what's happening to me. All this can do is scare me. And I've been scared enough already, thanks. 

This is Christmastime. Connor's first Christmas. And it's going to be wonderful. I imagine what it's like, to have all those Christmases stretching out in front of you, one after another, so many you can't see the end. 

I drop the envelope in the box and nudge it beneath the bed. 

***** 

"I don't guess you're making me cookies," Angel says. "Keep your arm straight." 

"I'm trying. This scimitar is in the hefty range," I mutter as I try to hold the formal battle pose. Angel is right behind me, his hands on my arms, holding me in place. "And no, no cookies. Strangely, there is no platelet-flavored slice-n-bake." 

"Now move," he says, and together we slide into the next position. My hands are lower now, and he's gripping my waist. "Perfect. Isn't Aunt Cordy doing great?" 

Connor blinks at us from his little recliner seat, which is presently across the room, next to the free weights. He still has that funny little newborn expression, the one that says, "What the HELL is going on?" And the situation's not gonna clear up for him anytime soon -- in fact, I think as I frown a little, possibly not ever. God knows I haven't figured it out yet. 

"Aunt Cordy's smart, isn't she?" I ask him. Connor responds by putting his fingers in his mouth, which is probably baby for "Your genius astonishes me." 

Angel's body is curved along my back, his legs behind my legs. He's speaking almost in my ear; there's a soft brush of air against my skin -- not his breath, because he doesn't really breathe, but the air he's drawn in order to talk. "If I'd known you'd be so good at this, I'd have gotten us started sooner." 

Is he talking about the workouts? Don't know. Don't care. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that we're together. We're having fun. And Angel is about to get his BUTT kicked. 

I step back like I'm stumbling, even drop the scimitar, and the second Angel loses his concentration, I make my move. I grab the arm he's got half-wrapped around me, tug it over my shoulder as I toss him forward -- 

-- oh, man -- he's heavy -- 

Angel hits the mat with a WHUMP that makes Connor jump in his little seat. I start to grin, only to feel Angel's hands grab my arms and pull -- 

The world goes tumbling like crazy, and I hit the mat so hard I have to gasp for air, and before I can even see straight, Angel's on top of me, hands pinning down my hands, legs pinning down my legs. I try to flip him over -- I've managed it before -- but I can't do a thing. It's like I'm chained beneath him, unable to move. 

I keep trying, though, pressing back against his arms. "Why can't I throw you?" I pant. "That one time I --" 

"I take it easy on you," Angel says. He's grave, all of a sudden; all that good energy in the room seems to have changed into something else, something that's making him serious and intense. "Not very easy -- you're good. But I don't do everything I could. When we're down here, we -- we have a lot of fun. But you can't afford to get overconfident, Cordelia. That's a good way to end up getting hurt, down the road." 

Down the road. Down what road? All at once, I start laughing -- it's all so absurd. Angel doesn't get the joke, and he scowls down at me. "Cordy, I'm serious." 

"I know you are," I say. "It's just that --" 

He cocks his eyebrow -- just what? And I realize that I can't explain, not to him and not to myself. I say, "So the message here is, Don't take my super-wonderfulness in battle for granted. Not every baddie out there is gonna be a soft touch like you." 

"Soft touch," Angel repeats. His lips twist in a little ironic smile. He's only a few inches above me, so close I could run my finger against those lips. "Hardly." 

"Oh, that's right," I whisper. "I forgot. You're the Scourge of Europe, the same one I saw last night folding all his baby's little onesies. The terrifying monster who watched us all dance around the Christmas tree." 

"Cordy --" 

"Don't worry. I know." I'm grinning at him now, and I can see him fighting not to grin back. His arms and legs are still heavy across mine, but he's not holding me down any more. "You're still Big Bad Angel." 

"Don't forget it," he says, and I know he means it seriously, as a warning. But there's a touch of something else, too -- mischief, maybe -- that he can't keep out of his voice. Men. Call 'em big and bad, and they're eating right out of your hand. 

"Okay," I sigh. "Let me up." 

He starts to do it, then stops. Angel looks down at me, still smiling a little, but strangely intent. Slowly he says, "Why should I?" 

"I have to pee." 

"Oh. Right." Angel rolls off me in an instant. I get to my knees, kiss little Connor -- who still looks kinda startled by all the people who were just flying around -- and go upstairs. 

"Sorry about that!" Angel calls after me. 

"No big." 

"I didn't mean -- uh --" 

"I'm fine!" I call after him, even as I become pretty sure it's a lie. 

But no, no, it's the truth. It has to be. The only reason I'm getting lightheaded is because I was just thrown to the floor. The explanation for the wobbliness in my legs is that I tried to get up and go upstairs too quickly. And I don't spend that long in the bathroom, really -- just as long as it takes to run some cold water on a cloth, press it to the back of my neck. 

***** 

As Christmas gets closer, we're all getting secretive. Making presents might be cheaper, but it sure takes a lot more time. So now Fred and Gunn are running off at all hours or locking themselves in Wesley's office; apparently there's a joint project in the works there. Angel is also demanding a lot of time to himself for gift-related reasons. Weird, to know that Angel's locked up in his room, but he's not brooding. Wesley's just kind of looking more and more panicked. 

All this time alone is okay, because it gives me a chance to dive in and make my own. Cheap and simple: I ran off some prints from a roll of film we took right after Connor was born. A cute baby picture and a group shot with everybody smiling. I bought some cheap little frames and some paint and beads and glue; voila, instant great framed photos for everyone. 

Plus -- I'm doing a little extra project for Angel; I'll have to give it to him later, or earlier, so the others don't get hurt feelings. 

Sitting on the floor, surrounded by beads and bows, I pick up the latest bit of paper -- this a clear Xerox copy of that newspaper photo of Angel from the 1950s. Pasted down there already are a few other things -- an address label for our old office, one of the red-and-pink umbrellas that used to come in the drinks at Caritas, a postcard he sent me from Sri Lanka. I use the glue stick on the back of the '50s photo, then carefully press it down in the lower right corner. 

After thinking it over for a while, I included some older stuff, too. Unhappier stuff. There's my invitation to the Sunnydale prom, its gold tassel now frayed. A photo of Doyle. We share all that, too, and maybe someday the sadness won't hurt so bad. 

As collages go, it's not much. But it's something he could keep, and look at, and remember. 

***** 

On the radio, Ella Fitzgerald is singing "Let It Snow" as we drive past palm trees. I grin over at Angel, but he doesn't seem to get the joke. He looks really serious for a guy who's about to go Christmas shopping for his baby boy. 

"Don't worry," I say, patting his knee. "Fred and Gunn are gonna take great care of him." 

"What? Oh." Angel still looks distracted and lost. "I know they will." He keeps driving toward the mall -- inching, more like, as the traffic gets snarlier -- and he doesn't glance away from the road. 

"So, let's see," I start ticking off ideas on my fingers. "Connor needs some stuffed animals, for sure. And one of those little fun mats, with panels that squeak and blink and stuff." 

This is Angel's cue to be amazed that they have mats like that, or insist that whatever he grew up with, burlap or twigs or something, is good enough for his kid. But he doesn't react at all. It's like he's not even listening to me. 

"Hey," I say. "You're not listening to me." 

"What?" Angel does look sideways at me, just for a moment. "I'm sorry. I'm just -- " 

After a few seconds, it's clear that this sentence is not going to get an ending. Angel's not talking to me, not listening to the music, not doing anything but staring into the glow of the taillights in front of us. He has got to cheer up, and soon. The holiday spirit must be maintained. No brooding, no worrying, no anything but fun. "Get with the program, buddy," I say. "You gotta be jolly if you want to play Santa Claus." 

"I can't. I can't do it." Angel's gripping the steering wheel like he's about to rip it from the dashboard, and he's shaking his head, and what the hell set that off? 

"Can't do what?" I look around wildly. "Merge right?" 

"Be Santa." 

This I do not believe. "Nobody's asking you do put on the red suit and beard. Although, I have to say, I just got the most amazing mental picture of that." 

Angel's not even taking in what I'm saying. "Cordelia -- the things I've been, the things I've done -- " 

"-- don't go with Santa." I finish the sentence for him. 

"They don't go with being a father," Angel says. "I want to be -- so different for him. So much smarter and better and stronger. And every time I think I can see it -- how it might work -- something like this happens. Something I can't see no matter what." 

"Like Santa." We sit in silence for a little bit as the cars crawl toward the shopping center. Angel still won't look at me, which is fine, because it gives me time to think. 

Finally, I say, "Well, then, you don't have to be Santa." That gets me the dark look, but I keep going. "All you have to do tonight is pick out some presents. That's all. Just buy a few things in a toy store. No different than a grocery store, except no carrots. Okay?" 

"Carrots? I mean, okay." 

"Tomorrow, all you have to do is wrap the presents. Just like you're wrapping the presents for the rest of us." I smile at him a little bit, touch his shoulder. "Christmas Eve, all you have to do is put the presents beneath the tree. Just one thing a day. Think you could manage that?" 

Angel smiles at me a little too, even though he's still tense. "I might screw it up." 

"You won't." 

"And if I do?" The smile's already gone. 

"I won't let you." 

***** 

This is, officially, the greatest Christmas ever. 

Fred designed us all websites, with personal email and photos scanned in and links to places she thinks we might enjoy; I spent about 30 minutes browsing the Elle site, and Angel pointed out all the painters he personally knew in this online fine-art gallery. Gunn made music mixes for all of us, which Fred helped him burn to CDs. I think Gunn believes that we are all just a wee tad more interested in hip-hop than we are -- in Wesley's case possibly a big fat tad -- but, hey, always good to try something new. Wesley totally choked; he actually made us all cookies. What is Angel supposed to do with cookies? Oh, wait, that's right; give them to ME. And everybody digs their pictures and crazy photo frames. 

Angel's gifts are the absolute best, though. He drew a portrait of each one of us. They're all good, because Angel can seriously draw. But mine -- 

Mine's different. Maybe I feel that way because it's me. But there's something about the expression he chose -- I don't even know what to call it. I'm not smiling. Not looking thoughtful. I recognize it, even though I've never seen it in the mirror. I look a little tired, a little excited, a little worried, a little energized. It's the expression I have when I'm telling them about a vision. And I can't even say how much I love the fact that this is when he thinks I'm beautiful. As far as Angel's concerned, this is my true face. And the more I look at it, I realize that it's my truth, too. 

I keep staring at it and staring at it, until finally Angel comes to my side. "You know, I can draw another if you don't --" 

"Don't you DARE. I love it. This is wonderful, Angel. Thanks." 

He smiles at me, then looks down at the bottom of the tree, where Connor is lying on his fun mat, chewing happily on the ear of a red terry-cloth dog. "Santa's first visit went okay," I say. 

"Yeah. Yeah, it did." 

Angel can be Santa Claus. A vampire can have a son. I don't have to worry about what the doctors say, because how can I not believe in miracles? 

On impulse, I throw my arms around Angel and hug him. "You know I love you, right?" 

Angel goes stiff as a board. I pull back and look up at him, but he's smiling at me, even if his face is a little -- funny. "And -- ah -- I, I feel that way too --" He hesitates, then mock-punches me on the shoulder. "-- Champ." 

I swear, he is so strange sometimes. 

***** 

I come through the door late Christmas night, humming that Dan Fogelburg song about another Auld Lang Syne. My gifts are piled up in my hands -- well, not the website, but the cookies and the CD are with me. I drop them on the sofa and carefully lift Angel's drawing from my bag. Looks like it will fit in an 8x10 frame, like the one I've got Uncle Carter in. After another couple seconds, I decide it won't hurt Uncle Carter's picture to get some air; I take it out, put my portrait in. 

As I back away from the frame to get a better look at it, I stumble over something -- the headache box. 

"It's Christmas, Dennis," I sigh. "Give it a rest." 

And I bend down and shove it back under the bed. Hard. 

****** 

END 

Feedback to: RhinestoneDazzle@aol.com 

Coming soon: "Purple" 

dazzle 


	5. Purple

I own none of the following characters. I don't intend to infringe on any copyrights. If you enjoy this story, please let me know at RhinestoneDazzle@aol.com. 

Title: Purple 

Author: Dazzle 

Rating: PG13 

Archive: Wherever you want 

Spoilers: Through the ATS third-season episode "Birthday" 

Warnings: None 

Summary: Angel is both terrified and overwhelmed in the aftermath of Cordelia's near-death and new demonic identity. Fifth in the Prism Series, which follows Cordy and Angel's developing feelings throughout the previous year. 

Thanks: To Inamorata for the great beta-read and encouragement 

The symbolism of purple: transformation, mystery, cruelty, mourning, enlightenment 

***** 

I run up the stairs three at a time, aware that Gunn and Wesley are panting behind me, trying to keep up. But I have to see her -- I have to make sure that Cordelia's still alive, that what we saw wasn't some weird fluke, that she's really okay -- 

And I come into my room and see Cordelia floating a few inches from the ceiling and sipping a grape Nehi soda. 

I have to be hallucinating. Maybe I'm the one the Powers are testing. Or maybe the combination of sleeplessness and terror finally broke whatever fragile sanity I might have left. 

"How did it go?" she asks brightly. 

"It went -- just great --" Gunn says between deep gasps as he and Wesley stumble in behind me. "Some more bad guys have exited this world for other, warmer dimensions, thanks to Cordy-O-Vision." 

"Well, that's a relief," she says. "Now we can figure out how I get down from here." 

My brain is buzzing with the quick, garbled explanation she gave us -- Cordelia's part demon now, and she doesn't seem to have any more idea what that means than I do. She's got abilities none of us can predict or understand; in the car, Wesley said we'd just have to watch and see. But what it all boils down to is -- Cordy's going to live. 

Lorne is standing beneath her, my son in one arm and his own grape soda in another. "Do you think we should maybe load up her pockets with stones?" he asks. "You know, for ballast." 

"Maybe just feed her a lot of ice cream and fried food," Gunn suggests, then ducks Cordy's foot as she kicks at his head. 

"Very funny," she says. But she's beaming down at him as she hands Wesley her soda, like being suspended a few feet above the ground is the best thing in the world. 

Wesley is shaking his head as we all circle beneath her. 'I can't think of many demons that have the capacity to defy gravity." 

"Well, thank goodness," says Fred, who's sitting on the foot of my bed. "If demons could generally fly, we would generally get creamed." 

"Cordy?" The name sounds strange -- no, it's my voice that's strange, cracked from exhaustion and strain and disbelief. "You're really okay?" 

Cordelia tries to reach down and touch me; when she can't, she just smiles at me, a sad smile that belongs to a much older woman. It fills my soul, and it breaks my heart. "I kinda have a helium thing going on," she says. "But except for that -- Angel, I'm fine. I'm okay." 

She's okay. Except for floating. "Let's try the direct approach," I suggest. And then I take hold of Cordy's foot -- then her calf -- then her thigh -- then her waist -- then her shoulders, tugging her whole body down until she's in my arms. 

Oh, God. Cordelia in my arms -- warm and breathing and holding me and alive, so alive -- 

Her weight settles onto the floor; I can feel it in the way her embrace changes, becomes more solid and real. She chuckles softly, as though through tears. "Back down to earth." 

"That's a relief," Lorne says. "I thought we were gonna have to rent you out to Goodyear." 

"Please try not to compare me to a blimp," Cordelia snaps back, but there's no anger in it. She's still smiling, still holding me close. "Oh, yay, gravity's back. Angel saves the day again." 

Cordelia steps back from me, beaming, because I saved the day. 

I spent hours and hours watching her lie there dying, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do, and I knew it and still I had to sit and watch her -- 

I push her away from me savagely. The violence of her shocks her, stuns the others. I can't believe it myself, but I can't stop. "Cordy, what the hell were you thinking!" I shout. 

"Angel, are you HIGH?" she cries. She's tugging her little sweatshirt around herself, scared and mad, and I don't blame her, and I still can't stop. 

"You were dying!" My voice cracks on the last word -- so much for the tough-guy routine -- but it keeps spilling out of me. "You've known you were dying for God knows how long, and you couldn't even tell us? We didn't even have a chance to learn what was wrong with you, or find out how -- how to help you --" 

"I'm okay, okay?" Cordelia's fear and hurt is changing into pure Cordy wrath; deep inside me, I feel something twist in anger, grow stronger for it. "I didn't need you to help me." 

"You got lucky," I snarl. 

"Lucky? What about floating-and-demonic spells lucky to you?" 

Wesley steps gingerly between us. "Ah -- perhaps we should consider this in the past --" 

I shove him out of the way -- not as hard as I did Cordy, but hard enough for Gunn and Fred to start edging their way toward the door. "I'm -- we're your friends, Cordelia. You owed us the truth." 

Cordelia's hands are on her hips, and her face is flushed. "Trust me, the truth is overrated. Like, I could have lived a LONG time without knowing that you think of me as a -- what was it -- spoiled rich girl? Is that what you told the Powers about me?" 

And how the hell did she hear that? It doesn't matter. "If you think that comes even close to comparing to not telling us that you were -- not giving me even a chance to save you -- " 

"That's because I knew you couldn't!" Her eyes go wide even as she says it -- I know she regrets it instantly, but it doesn't matter. I feel cold and sick and a hell of a lot deader than usual. 

Cordelia stands there awkwardly, her hands balled in her sweatshirt. The others all look as though they wish they could melt into the carpet. And I'm the jackass in the center of it all, the guy who just threw a fit and now can't think of a damn thing to say. The useless idiot who couldn't even save her. 

Connor starts crying, and the sound is more welcome than it's been since the very first time I heard him, moments after he was born. Lorne starts bouncing him gently and says, "Hey, tiger cub, let's you and me go downstairs and let your old man cool down --" 

"The old man's cool enough," I say, and hold out my hands for my child. 

The others hesitate, and I hate them for it, and I hate myself even more for deserving it. "I'm fine with him," I say, slowly and deliberately. "It's the rest of you who need to go." As I say the words, I'm only looking at Cordelia. 

Lorne hands Connor to me, and I cradle him close, checking his diaper. I hear the others walk out, rather than see them. And to judge by the soft footsteps that linger in the hall, Cordelia is the last to leave. 

*** 

I wake up in the middle of the night -- not startled, but alert. Mentally I replay the sound in my mind, then look over at the other side of the bed. Connor's awake. He didn't cry, but he's started making noise, testing me to see what it takes to wake the dead. 

Somewhere between the moment Cordelia left and the moment I finished changing Connor, I realized how long it had been since I'd slept for more than 10 minutes at a stretch, or in a bed, or without being afraid that Cordelia was about to die. I started to put Connor in his crib, but then I knew how badly I needed him near, to hear his breathing and his heartbeat. So we piled up in bed together for -- I glance at the clock -- a couple of hours, before the Amazing Bottle-Drinking Machine woke up, apparently ready for action again. 

He gives a little cry -- just one, trying out his voice. He blinks at me in the darkness, maybe as surprised to wake by my side as I am to wake by his. The baby books all say he should always sleep in the crib, but this once I didn't listen, and I'm glad. I may be a hot-tempered jackass, or a ineffectual man who couldn't save his -- his best friend, but all that's a little farther away right now. I put my hand on Connor's tiny round tummy, feel the warmth of his living body within his terry-cloth sleeper. 

"What's the matter, big guy?" Connor blinks up at me, frowns in something that's not quite distress and puts his fist in his mouth. "I figured you were hungry. You're growing fast, aren't you?" 

A quick check of the fridge reveals that I'm out of bottles up here; I think there are a few already mixed downstairs. I'm still not ready to deal with the others, but at 3 a.m., Connor and I are probably on our own. 

With my son on my shoulder, I go quietly down the hallway past Lorne's room, past Fred's. There's a light on downstairs; we usually have at least one lamp lit during the night, in case of midnight customers or feedings. 

And as I get closer to the lobby, that dim light lets me see Cordelia, curled around the circular sofa in what has to be the world's most awkward position for sleeping. She is asleep, though, so if I wanted, I could get Connor's bottle and go upstairs again without ever letting on. 

But the sight of her -- both the uncomfortable way she's lying and the simple, beautiful rise and fall of her breath -- make me go to her side. "Hey," I say quietly, shaking her shoulder with my free hand. "That can't feel good." 

"Hmmmph -- wha?" Cordelia sits up and blinks at me in incomprehension. Then she remembers that she wanted to talk to me, and she grins. Then she remembers that she's mad at me, and the smile's all gone. "Took you long enough." 

"Why are you -- Cordy, if you don't feel up to driving home --" Oh, God, she's still too weak to drive, and I pushed her, and -- "You know there's rooms, there's beds --" 

"I feel fine," she insists, then stretches and grimaces as her back pops. "I didn't mean to sleep down here. I thought even you couldn't be stubborn enough not to come back downstairs after a few minutes. Guess I guessed wrong." Her eyes are dark as she scowls at me. "But you're finally here. So, did you come down to yell at me some more?" 

I feel like hell, but for once, discretion isn't the better part of valor. I say it gently, but I say it: "Did you stick around to lie to me some more?" 

Cordelia wants to go ballistic at that, but she can't. She's too tired -- even in the shadows, I can see the gray-purple smudges beneath her eyes. And, angry as she is, she knows my question's a good one. "Angel -- don't be mad at me," she says at last. "You don't understand what it was like." 

She looks like the 21-year-old girl she is right then -- uncertain, sweet, still afraid. I sit down beside her. "Tell me." 

"I didn't know for sure I was dying," she says. "The doctors would say -- well, they'd say one thing, and then the next week they'd say something totally different. They obviously didn't have any idea what they were talking about." 

"I know it had to be confusing," I answer. Connor wriggles against me, still hungry, but for the time being, he can be appeased with a pat on the back. "But Cordy -- I mean, obviously they did know what they were talking about. They said you were dying, and you were." Cordelia was dying. She was lying on my bed still and silent and dying -- 

"I guess," she says miserably. "I mean, I really didn't know from the doctors -- the last few months, I didn't even read most of my test results. But sometimes I wondered. I used to think maybe I could feel it happening." 

"Jesus, Cordy." I take my own terror of the last several hours, stretch it out over months, and try to imagine how it must have been for her. I can't. "But even if you were just scared, you could have told us. Even if I -- even if I couldn't save you, I at least could have -- tried to help you not be afraid." Only that. But at least it would have been something. 

"Angel, I didn't mean that, about not being able to save me. I didn't mean it. Please don't think I meant it." Cordelia puts her hands against my chest; her words do less to calm me than the feel of her skin, so warm and alive against mine. 

"You meant something." 

She sighs and looks skyward -- for advice? Trying to take flight again? Instead, she says, "Angel -- I wasn't scared that you couldn't stop it from happening. I was scared that you would." 

"What? Of course I would have stopped it, Cordy. It was killing you --" 

"And how would you have stopped it, huh?" Cordelia's on her feet in an instant, pacing in front of me. The words pour out of her, but she's saying this to herself as much as to me. "There's only one way you could ever have stopped it. And that would have been to get rid of my visions. You would have had to take them away from me, and I didn't want that." 

"The last time you were in danger --" A memory of Cordelia's face, frightened and burned, swims up out of my memory, floods my thoughts, is gone. "-- you were willing to give up the visions then." 

"Only because I was scared. But once I had a chance to think about it some more, to realize what it means to me and to you and to all those people we help -- I knew that would have been wrong. I had to keep the visions, Angel. I had to keep being your Seer. You could have taken the visions away from me, but if that meant I wasn't your Seer anymore -- then you wouldn't have saved me. Not really. I had to believe that it was gonna turn out okay, because we were doing the right thing." 

She's so young. She still thinks it could be that simple. "You still should have told us." 

Cordelia quirks her lips. "You're telling me that you would've done what I wanted? Let me keep the visions?" 

"I don't know," I confess. "But at least I could have just -- been there for you. You had to be so scared, Cordelia. And I lean on you so for so much. I want you to be able to lean on me too." Me, somebody's stable rock and comfort and anchor. Okay, it's not likely. But it would be nice to try sometime. 

She sighs. "I know I can lean on you if I have to, Angel. But the last few months, I didn't know which way to lean. I wasn't sitting up nights terrified about it. I was so amazingly not thinking about it, at ALL. You know me. If I don't want to go there, my brain doesn't go there. End of story." 

Cordelia's just saying it to make me feel better, but it works, because at last, it's the truth. The thought of her alone and frightened these past months -- I'm glad it's just an idea, and not reality. 

But just when I think the mood has lightened, Cordelia frowns again and swats me on the arm. "Ow!" 

"I believe we have a certain rich-girl comment to discuss?" 

Oh, hell. "Cordy --" 

"Don't you Cordy me. And don't even think about pleading baby-bottle duty. Connor's halfway asleep again." I glance down and see this is true. Way to fall down on the job, little man. "Why did you say that?" 

I think about what I said in that chamber, and my stomach drops as I realize the depth of what I confessed in there -- what I admitted out loud for the first time ever. Haltingly, I ask, "Cordy -- what did you hear?" 

"That you think I'm a spoiled little rich girl the Powers couldn't even be bothered with," she says. "Or something like that." 

I study her face carefully. She's angry -- not as angry as she's putting on, but angry enough. But she's not holding anything back. I wish I had taken a breath, so I could let it out. Cordelia didn't hear. She doesn't know. "You know that's not how I think of you," I say, because that's the simplest way of putting it. 

"If it isn't -- " Hell, she actually believes I might have meant it, at least a little. "-- then why did you say it?" 

I ask myself the same question, then answer her slowly. "I thought that -- if I pretended you didn't matter to me -- then they wouldn't take you away to hurt me." 

"You thought they were doing all this to hurt YOU?" Cordelia's shaking her head, half in amusement, half in disbelief. "Hello, it was MY head that was going to explode! Do you honestly think the whole universe is only out to get you?" 

I open my mouth to protest, but then I stop. I start thinking -- Wolfram & Hart, Holtz, Kate, Drusilla, the Council of Watchers, the First Evil, the gypsies -- 

Cordelia gasps and claps her hands to her mouth. "Oh, my God! You do! Because it -- well, it kinda is." 

We stare at each other for a long minute, and then we burst into laughter. Connor wakes and starts bawling, and I cuddle him close, but I'm laughing too hard to get into the kitchen. The universe is out to get me. Of course. Explains it all. Why didn't I see it before? 

As always, it takes Cordy to see it for me. 

She's giggling and wiping tears from her eyes as I get up. "Come on," I say between laughs. "Let's get this guy his bottle." 

We get into the kitchen and finally get Connor his formula; Connor can't quite grip the bottle himself yet, but it's clear he'd like to try as he hungrily gulps down his meal. "Sorry we made you wait," Cordelia whispers as she leans down and kisses his head. "Mmmm. That smell right at the top of his head. What is that? Just pure babysmell, I guess. Why does that smell so great?" 

"Don't know." Standing here in the dim light, with Cordelia strong and alive and by my side, and Connor warm and healthy in my arms, I feel the last tension drain out of me. "Hold him, will you?" 

"Huh? Sure." Cordelia holds her arms out, and I hand over both baby and bottle. She gets the right grip right away, and Connor doesn't miss a beat. "Why do you --" Her voice trails off as I wrap them both in a hug. "Oh," she whispers, and rests her head against my chest -- leaning on me, just this little bit, just for this moment, and it's enough. Connor shifts slightly between us, and Cordelia's cheek is soft against my skin. 

For so long, I've fought for intangible things -- rightness, salvation, redemption. All part of my mission and my duty. But at this moment I realize how good it feels to know that everything you're fighting for -- everything you love -- can be contained in your embrace. Held safe in your arms. 

************** 

END 

Feedback to: RhinestoneDazzle@aol.com 

Coming soon: Orange 


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